Cobra Clearance (10 page)

Tired, he'd let his thoughts wander, so when he felt the tap on his shoulder and heard, “Gotcha,” he shot to DEFCON Three, whirled and went into a fighting stance.

Susan reared back, her eyes wide as she pointed to an anteroom near the elevators. “I-I've been waiting for you.”

Levi notched it down to DEFCON Four, but not to the lowest level of Five. Not yet. He hoped he would never have to go to DEFCON One—
attack is imminent
—as he demanded, “Why aren't you working?”

Susan wrapped her arms around him. “I called in. Told them I've come down with something.” She got a puckish look. “I didn't tell them that I've come down with you.”

His weariness kicked-in.
Hell, all I want is a beer and a pillow. Now she'll expect me to perform, and last night I sure found out she hasn't changed—she still wants an active lover and she still sexualizes me. Okay, fine. I've got the world on my shoulders but I need to get laid, too
. At last he said, “Join me in my room for a drink?”

While he opened a bottle of pinot noir she told him, “I googled your name today but nothing came up. No social networks, no business connections. Nada. I found that strange. After all, you're a consultant. I would think you'd have something posted.”

Is she stalking me? Then again, others google their friends. I guess it's harmless
.

She smiled. “So I began checking government websites. I found something, too.”

It was clear from her triumphant expression that she expected a reaction. “Oh?”

Her eyes sparkled. “You never told me you have a pilot's license. A multi-engine commercial one, with an instrument rating. But you always were modest.”

“Hmm. Yeah. Got that years ago.” He handed her a glass and their talk turned to benign topics. By the time they finished the wine he asked her to stay the night.

They had sex, and afterward she lay in his arms and blinked back sudden tears. “You've done it, you handsome devil. You've
captured my heart again.” She propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him. “Let's get married. What do you say?” When he said nothing, she burst into nervous laughter. “Am I being too pushy?”

He caressed her back with his fingertips. “No. Not at all. I'm honored.” Then he gently turned her face so that he could see her eyes. “I wish I could tell you that I'm also in love.” He pushed on in the only way he knew how—from the heart, without deception, but with tenderness. “We're friends, but…” When her body tensed, he whispered, “I'm sorry. I won't mislead you.”

“Well…thanks for letting me down gently. And for being the person you are. It's why I loved you.” She giggled and elbowed his ribs. “I also love how playful you can be in bed. That sure hasn't changed.”

He nuzzled her ear. “Know what else we had? Pillow talk. I've missed that.”

She cuddled against him, and later they made love again.

Levi's inner clock woke him at 5:00 a.m. He showered, shaved and poured steaming java from the coffee-maker into a Styrofoam cup. Then he gently shook Susan and told her goodbye. Upon reaching the lobby he went to a cluster of coin-operated newspaper stands and found the latest
Wall Street Journal
and
Washington Post
. But when he reached into his pocket and found no coins he went to the desk to get change. Minutes later and with the newspapers in hand, he climbed into his Mustang.

After leaving the hotel parking lot he came to a stop sign at Nursery Road. He was about to proceed when he spotted a blue Camry in his mirror. Then he saw Susan behind the wheel.
Damn…how did she get outside so fast? Hell, I let my guard down again
. Instead of turning left to go to Fannex, he hung a hard right. When the Camry
also turned right, he picked up speed. So did she. He thought, don't know what your game is, but it's time to lose you.

He ran the next red light, power-shifted into third, and smoked the tires as he took the freeway entrance for Washington. When she followed, he floored it and threaded his way through the slow-moving commuter traffic, sped up to eighty, skirted two large trucks about to block the way ahead, then zoomed down the freeway. Once satisfied that he'd left her in the pack, he took the next exit for BWI, zipped past the local traffic, hung a left onto Elm Road, and made his way to Fannex.

The rest of Dragon Team had already settled into their seats, some with coffee, others with fast food breakfast sandwiches. Tucker waited until Levi plopped into an empty chair next to Michael, then stood to address them. “First off, Mr. Baker's been called away. Pennsylvania Avenue. The Man wanted a breakfast chat. Item two. We got a hit on the sketch. The Bureau kept running up against a brick wall. Turns out their facial programs rely on pixel images from biometrics, and an artist's rendition lacks those. So they borrowed from the facial experts—the Vegas casino security people. They've been experimenting with a reverse biometric management system. What they got wasn't pretty but it was enough to develop three composite photos. The Bureau's computers mixed and matched DMV and arrest photos, then tapped into military records.” He paused. “They got hits from New Mexico's DMV and the U.S. Army. The Bureau already has a file on him, too. He's a white supremacist.”

Tucker pressed a key on his laptop and an image appeared on the screen behind him. “Brent Kruger is single, fifty-five, stands five seven, and is descended from German aristocracy. He's a trust fund kid. Worth a fortune. Graduated Princeton with a Ph.D. in
philosophy. But what's he do next? He keeps his degree a secret and joins the Army as an enlisted man. He served five years before they booted him.” He grunted. “There's a notation in his personnel file characterizing him as ‘possessing chutzpah.'”

Levi hunched forward. “It said that? It used that exact word?”

“Let's see.” Tucker picked up a folder and ran his finger down the cover sheet. “‘See Attachment J-26,'” he murmured. After flipping through the folder he read an entry and looked up. “Yep. It's right here in his C.O.'s separation report. Chutzpah.”

“That's good to know. We might be able to use that.”

Tucker said, “It's interesting that his C.O. used that term, because Kruger couldn't keep his anti-Semitic views to himself. Now he's…”

“Don't tell me,” Dentz began. “He's got a following.”

“Give the man a hand. Yep, he's got some seventy ex-cons, dopers and drifters tucked away in a compound east of Albuquerque. Probably twenty of them are soldiers. The rest are women and children. Lots of children.”

Sawyer said, “They're breeding little white babies.”

“Affirmative.” Tucker scowled. “The report made a point of describing a common supremacist call to action known as the Fourteen Words: ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.'” He shook his head. “Moving on, Kruger's able to fund his entire operation.”

Levi spoke up. “Meaning he doesn't have to hit banks and armored cars.”

“Right. Keeps him below the radar. Unfortunately, the Bureau can't get an agent inside his camp. His internal security is rock-solid. Now then, item three. Our ATF friends carried out a raid on a suspected weapons cache in rural Virginia. They found a deserted farm with a private airstrip—but no weapons.”

Monica said, “But they discovered something else.”

“You bet they did. Three bodies.” He looked around the room. “Anyone crunch the numbers yet?”

“Middle Eastern males,” she said without hesitation, “whose faces match those involved in the assassination, courtesy of the media camera photos.”

A ripple of excitement passed through the room. Tucker hit a key and another photo materialized. “All three were executed at close range by a single gunshot to the backs of the heads.”

Hacksaw said as he examined a hangnail, “Amahl didn't wanna leave witnesses.”

Monica studied the photo. “They must've been sleeping. Or else someone helped him. Amahl might've gotten the jump on one or two, but all three?”

“Circumstantial at best,” Sawyer said.

Tucker said, “Not so fast. Kruger's a pilot. He owns a twin-engine plane and there's a landing strip at the farm. Someone had to spirit Amahl and his men out of that garage. Why not Kruger?”

Sawyer pressed both palms against the table. “Because he's not one of them. There's no cultural link. No common ground.”

Tucker held up a hand. “There's more…”

Michael interrupted. “I'm guessing the gray minivan wasn't at the farm.”

Hacksaw shook his head. “Nah. They're too sophisticated for that. I'll bet they had a third cut-out vehicle stashed in another garage—an' I'm sure they chose one that had no surveillance cameras.”

Michael shifted in his chair. “Back to the farm. Someone owns it. Is it wishful thinking to ask if it's Kruger?”

“In fact,” Tucker said, “the Bureau traced the owner to an infant boy's grave three miles west of Helena, Montana. The documents used to purchase it in the boy's name were acquired thirty years ago, before states started safeguarding birth and death records. Someone's been preparing for future actions of one type or another for decades.”

“Kruger's old enough to have done it,” Levi said.

“And that brings us to item four. Some NSA intercepts.” Tucker worried the end of his nose. “They focused on Zurich, and…” He glanced at his notes. “And there's…”

Levi said at once, “There's a sudden increase in communications between the Zurich terminal and the New Mexico compound.”

“Close,” Tucker conceded. “Calls from different pay phones do originate from the terminal, but they're directed to cell phones inside Albuquerque's Cottonwood Mall.”

Dentz said, “And the calls are never to the same cell phones, the caller always uses pre-paid cards available anywhere, and they talk in bursts of coded phrases.”

“Of course. Unfortunately, we have no samples of Kruger's voice, to see if the voice that was recorded at the mall is his.”

Michael stirred. “How far is the mall from the compound?”

“Sixty miles.”

“Hmm.” He made a tent of his fingers and tapped them against his chin. “I'd love to get inside that compound.” He peered at Tucker over his fingertips and muttered, “But we don't have P.C. for a search warrant.”

Tucker said, “At least not yet. Okay. Item five. Voice analysts concur that the Zurich caller speaks English with a Tigrigna accent. Only six percent of Ethiopians speak Tigrigna, and as we've learned, it's our cab driver's mother tongue. The analysts also agree that the caller's age is similar to Kalil's, and he uses Arabic slang words that he could've picked up from Amahl.”

“The puzzle comes together,” Michael agreed. “But if Kruger bought multiple phones, then he and Kalil would need mutual lists of which phones to use on specific dates and times when Kruger would be among thousands of people at the mall.”

Monica asked, “Do the Feds have the resources for a follow-up?”

“This is why I love you people,” Tucker said, “because you think. Okay, this is where things stand. State has asked the Swiss
to track Kalil, but the Swiss have begged-off. They don't think there's enough to pursue, and right now they've got their hands full with that upcoming IMF event.” He ran a hand across his close-cropped hair. “However, the buggers were kind enough to distribute copies of a sketch of Kalil to their various agencies, and they're not opposed to us snooping around. Me? I think Amahl's living with Kalil but the Bureau's not convinced.” He cleared his throat. “Last item, and then we brainstorm. The Bureau thinks Amahl used a forged American passport issued under the name,
Yoni Shochat.
It's an Israeli name if anyone's interested.”

Dentz scoffed. “So it's forged. Why do we think it's his?”

“
Shochat
is Hebrew for ‘the butcher'.”

“Amahl's taunting us,” Levi said.

“Taunt or not, the passport's path begins in Mexico City and ends in Morocco. It's a short boat ride from there to Europe. Hell, he could've gotten off anywhere, and the EU countries stopped manning border checkpoints years ago.”

“But,” Hacksaw began, “we're still speculatin' about too many things, an' like Michael pointed out, we still lack probable cause. Take this guy Kruger…”

Levi slammed his palm against the table. “Holy
hell
.” When all eyes turned to him he said, “It can't be.” He pivoted in his chair and faced Tucker. “You said Kruger did time in the army. When and where?”

“Gulf War One. He served there.”

“In what capacity?”

“Military police.”

Levi slammed the table again, leaped to his feet and dashed to a cluster of bulging cardboard file boxes. He went straight to the fourth one and riffed through it until he pulled out a document. “Remember the duty officer log listing Amahl's brief stint as a POW?” He held the document aloft. “If you'll recall, the D.O. saw
one of the MPs talking to Amahl right before he vanished. I'd glanced at the names of the MPs out of habit, and…”

Michael said it. “And one of those MPs was Brent Kruger.”

“Private First Class B. F. Kruger to be precise,” Levi began. Then he stopped and stared at some unseen thing, until his mouth became a straight line and his hands turned to fists. Finally he flicked his eyes at Michael. “Hallway. Now.” Turning on his heel, he marched out of the room.

Michael joined Levi and shut the door behind him. “Let's have it.”

Levi said quietly, “The last three years I've wondered what it all meant, why my wife and son were murdered. Now I know.” He leaned forward at the waist and locked eyes with his friend. “They didn't die because I wasn't there. I'm
here
because they're dead—and I'm gonna nail these bastards, or friggin' die trying.”